


Sweet Are The Uses

by Bagheera



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagheera/pseuds/Bagheera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor is having a bad day in exile when by chance he meets the Master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Are The Uses

Sometimes, the Doctor runs away. Sometimes he just can't bear being stuck at UNIT headquarters anymore, and he runs. There are moments when he's overcome by hatred and disgust, waves of bitterness so dark they choke him. He always feels sorry afterwards, because humanity doesn't deserve a bitter old Time Lord hating them just for being there, all around him, all the time. They've done nothing to him. The Doctor knows human nature, and he knows he's been very lucky so far with the way they have treated him. If he had a choice to leave, he would love them all, love them and leave them, but like this, he is stuck with them, and sometimes...

Sometimes he runs. He takes Bessie for a drive in the countryside. In some places, rural England can look remarkably like the Eye of Orion, tranquil and enchanted. But it makes him melancholy more than anything. It's not space-time itself he misses. 20th century Earth *is* a point in space and time, and as good as any – if not a tad better. It's his freedom he misses, the anonymity and surprises of travel.

The one place that carries a bit of that excitement and possibility he misses so is London. He supposes any big city on Earth would do, but London is his favourite, and always will be. The moment he first set foot in the city, centuries ago in his personal time, he felt a connection to it. And there are thousands and thousands of humans in the streets of London, but they're all strangers, and among them, when he's roaming aimlessly, the Doctor feels just a tiny bit free.

Today it's cool outside, and clouds are constantly drifting in front of the spring sun, but everywhere he sees short skirts and sleeves. He loves human optimism – but it doesn't quite reach his heart today. He almost hates the Time Lords for exiling him to Earth of all places. It works as an aversion therapy, and he doesn't want to hate Earth.

He's been wandering aimlessly, lost in thought for long stretches, but something has been nagging at his mind. He feels watched. He probably is drawing some attention with his opera cloak, as it isn't quite suited for the weather or time of day (or indeed, for the period) but it isn't that. It isn't human, that's it.

The idea that something alien is watching him cheers him up immediately. He craves action almost like an addict: he isn't allowed flight these days, but he can fight. It's not the violence, which he still despises, but the rush and challenge that attracts him, draws him in like a moth to the flame.

He's found his way into a street market, busy on a Saturday afternoon, the spaces between the stalls crammed with people. There are antique sellers, and some who sell things that are barely above rubbish – the Doctor approves. Few things are so badly ruined that you should throw them away, and sometimes the broken things can be exceptionally beautiful.

His attention is heightened by the odd feeling that he isn't alone, and his senses sharpen as he takes in the multitude of sights and sounds, the crates full of books and furniture and vegetables, the stalls with colourful flowers, the chairs and tables in front of some of the cafés. Music drifts out, rock and roll mingling harmoniously with a duet of violin and piano from next door. Someone jostles him and apologizes, but he barely notices, his senses are drifting again, drawn, almost dreamlike, swaying in the noise and then, suddenly, he finds focus, and the presence that has lured him here withdraws.

He sits alone at a small table, legs crossed and leaning back in his chair, wearing a neat grey suit and a pale tie. In front of him on the white table sits a coffee cup, he's smoking a cigar and watching the Doctor. Their eyes meet and the Master smiles, slowly, and winks at him.

The Doctor frowns, flexing his fingers in the pockets of his cloak. He could dash into one of the cafés or shops and ask to make a phone call to UNIT, but by the time he'd dial the number, the Master would long be gone.

And the Doctor doesn't want him gone. Whatever the Master is doing here, it is bound to provide excitement and distraction, and maybe a chance or two to exchange some pleasantries. The Doctor has badly regretted losing that dematerialisation circuit and allowing the Master to escape with his TARDIS in the months since the incident with the Keller Machine and the Thunderbolt missile, as it began to look more and more as if the Master wouldn't return any time soon.

The Master has lowered his eyes, still smiling, and taken a sip from his coffee. When he looks up, he clearly expects the Doctor to still be there. It's he who controls their relationships these days, because he can drop in on the Doctor whenever he wants. And still the Doctor prefers his visits to those from other Time Lords (which rarely ever happen, and then only to lecture him or issue orders and warnings) because the Master craves the Doctor's attention just as badly as the Doctor craves his company, and truth to be told, the Doctor has never liked his fellow Time Lords all that much. The Master at least has a spirit of adventure.

He shouldn't be thinking this way, of course. The Master is evil, without a doubt.

Pondering his sonic screwdriver, the Doctor strides towards the Master's table. He's welcomed with an amused smirk and a polite wave at the other chair. "Do take a seat, Doctor."

"What are you doing here?" demands the Doctor. "Didn't I tell you to leave Earth and stop bothering us?"

The Master takes a pull from his cigar, watching the Doctor, who is still standing, with dark eyes. It is quite irritating. "And since when do you smoke? It's bad enough to see humans indulging in such foolishness."

"One does pick up bad habits in this place," the Master replies philosophically. "Especially when stuck here for some time. Like working for those primitives, Doctor, am I right? I'd never thought I'd see you taking orders from anyone – much less a bunch of human soldiers and bureaucrats. How does it feel to be their pet Time Lord, I wonder?" He laughs at his own maliciousness even before the Doctor can answer.

It rankles, because it hits deep in the centre of the Doctor's black mood. He keeps telling himself that he's doing humanity a favour, no more, but fact is that he is working for them. They've even offered him money.

The Master's eyes narrow and his smile grows sharp. "Oh, but I forget. You're hardly a Time Lord at all these days, aren't you? You don't even understand your own TARDIS!"

It's worse than that. He feels like an alien in his own TARDIS. She doesn't speak to him anymore – some days he thinks she doesn't even recognize him fully. It's not her he can't repair, except for the broken dematerialisation circuit she is quite whole: it's the Doctor himself who is broken.

"If you're quite done gloating –" the Doctor begins, but a dark-haired waitress interrupts him, asking if he'd care for a coffee or a piece of cake.

"No," he snaps, then regrets it when he sees her startled face. He apologizes and orders a cup of tea.

Once the waitress has left them, he gives the Master a withering glance, hangs his cloak over the back of the free chair and sits down opposite his old friend and adversary. "Now tell me what you're doing here, on Earth. It's not like you to just seek me out like this."

"Isn't it?" asks the Master. "Maybe I wasn't looking for you, Doctor. You're the one who came here after all – were you looking for me?" He casts glances left and right in a very fake sort of concern. "Where are your UNIT friends today, and the lovely Miss Grant?"

"I was merely taking a stroll. I am quite capable of doing that on my own."

Again, the Master chuckles, but this time, it's almost warmly. "Of course. Too bad you can't get much further than London these days, isn't it?"

"What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing," the Master laughs. "Believe me, nothing at all."

His coffee is brought and the Doctor manages a distracted smile at the waitress. He stirs in milk and sugar. The Master watches. Their minds are both present, solid, palpable in the cool air, unlike the broken link with the TARDIS. He feels alive and like himself.

Suddenly, the Master says, "You'd have left me to die with that machine."

The Doctor's lips twitch. This man has promised to kill him countless times, and yet he still has the audacity to sound almost hurt. "You have a way of escaping certain death," he says gruffly. "And besides, it was your mess. You built that machine, and you stole the missile. I felt it was only fair to have you feel the consequences of your actions for once."

"And there I was thinking human sensibilities were rubbing off on you. They can be terribly barbaric at times, can't they? A little eye for an eye..."

"I can't believe you're just here for a friendly chat."

"You hurt me, Doctor!" Nothing of the sort: the Master is deeply amused and enjoying himself. "Conversation with you is always a treat. Yes, I am quite indebted to the Time Lords for exiling you to Earth – it makes it so much easier to find you."

The Doctor is starting to think that the Master really might just be here to taunt him. He certainly is petty enough to enjoy it, and maybe the fact that the Doctor can't run and won't ignore him has made him so complacent that he doesn't feel the need to impress with flashy schemes. "So," says the Doctor. "How are the old Time Lords? Any news from Gallifrey?"

"I'm a renegade, Doctor. How would I know? I'm as much shunned by our society as you are."

"Nonsense. I know you, Master, you're always well-informed. After all, you did find out about my exile."

The Master relents a bit then, and lets slip a few news. Nothing of consequence ever truly happens on Gallifrey, stagnation and boredom is what drove them both away in the beginning. A few people have spoken in favour of the Doctor, but none very loudly. Eventually, their conversation drifts away from their home planet to other places and peoples, topics about which the Doctor has had no one to talk to for more than a year. Humans are like children; they understand little and know even less.

It's true what the Master said. Talking with each other is always a treat, a special kind of thrill. Usually there are circumstances that make it less than pleasant to encounter the Master, but today, whatever his angle may be, the Master is taking his time, and the Doctor feels his guard slipping. This might well be the longest they have talked since the Academy, and the Doctor knows what that means. The Master can be very, very patient, but only when he's in the middle of a scheme. He doesn't find it in himself to care, though, not tonight. The black mood that drove him away from his human friends is still lurking at the back of his mind. He's enjoying himself, talking animatedly, listening, laughing. The market stalls have closed but the cafés have grown noisier, and the sky is flushing with the deep red colours that predict rain. They progress from coffee to liquor, glass after glass, hardly effective against Time Lord metabolisms. The Doctors drunkenness is of a different kind. He's drunk with the restless energy of their minds, drunk with challenge and conversation. The very fact that the Master is a Time Lord makes this intimate.

Then suddenly, he feels the need to walk. He calls the waitress, but the Master pays for both of them, and the Doctor realizes that the Master has picked up more than one human habit, and for the first time he considers, then discards the thought that this might be a different kind of scheme.

They leave together, and walk for a while, still talking. The Doctor feels better now that he's moving, no longer quite as caged, but he's still itching to do something. There's a park, and when he spots a pair of old men playing chess he can't resist: he disturbs their game, ending it with tree very good tips, and then asks them if he might borrow the board. The Master has been watching in quiet amusement, but when they hesitate, he moves in.

"Gentlemen," he begins, and the Doctor casts him a warning glance. No hypnosis. They're not stealing. To his surprise, the Master gives a put-upon sigh and instead buys the board and the pieces for a rather outrageous sum of money, too much for the men to object.

It's just money, but the Doctor wonders if it's real. His concern barely lasts a moment, already the Master is setting up the pieces. Two-dimensional chess is hardly worth playing, except against an enemy as formidable as the Master, who has put on his gloves when they left the café and is still wearing them: black leather covered fingers on black and white pieces, setting them swiftly into place.

Their first game is quick, the Doctor loses because he's still not quite able to concentrate. A fencing match would be more after his taste right now. The defeat spurs his ambition, though, and the second game is long and drawn out. When they finally agree on a draw because the game grows stalled and repetitive, it is dark and the park is very quiet. The Doctor feels less balanced than before, even though he is calm: as if whatever the Master is doing to him is working.

"It must be time for you to go home," the Master remarks. "Your friends will surely be worrying about you by now."

It's a thinly veiled taunt, a hint at the Doctor's lack of independence. "Getting impatient to bring this to an end?" he asks. "Are you ready to tell me now what this is all about?"

"Oh no," the Master replies politely. "I was merely considering that it is getting quite late. Perhaps we should find a more comfortable place to talk."

And the Doctor follows him. He's getting agitated, and trying not to show it. The feeling that he ought to leave now is strong. So far, it has been a chance meeting, but now it's bordering on following the Master around, and yet – he cannot quite tear himself away. There are restaurants and pubs, but the Master decides he wants more privacy, and the Doctor, who cannot claim innocence or obliviousness, finds himself alone in a hotel room with his worst foe and only brother in exile.

The Master pours them drinks while the Doctor paces in the strange room, lifting the curtains, glancing outside, blindly studying the pictures on the walls. Neither of them sit down. The Master stands with one hand on the back of an armchair, with the other he offers a drink. The Doctor declines, and after he has bent down to put the glass back onto the coffee table, the Master touches the Doctor's shoulder, letting his hand rest there in a very specific way.

The Doctor smiles wryly. "Ah, that answers my question," he says. "I was wondering if this was a trap or a seduction."

The Master is quite a bit shorter than him, and has to look up now that he's standing so close. His eyes are very serious now, not sharing the Doctor's slightly panicked amusement, very serious and very intent. He leans up and kisses him on the lips, quite chastely except for the unspoken desire brimming behind it. His hands lock behind the Doctor's neck, and he pulls off his gloves, dropping them, and then his bare hands are around the Doctor's bare neck, and his beard bristles against the spot right beneath the Doctor's jaw as he kisses him there. The Doctor closes his eyes and draws a sharp breath.

"So tell me, Doctor," the Master asks, voice low and rough. "Which is it?"

A breathless laugh escapes him. One of his hands rests loosely on the Master's waist. "A trap, clearly, as I find myself quite unable to leave."

"Then I shall not have to force you?"

It's hard to tell if the Master means it to be a question or a jab at the Doctor's unusual compliance (meaning, the way he is rather embarrassingly willing to endure quite a few indignities later just to have this right now). "Would you?" The Doctor asks. He tries to sound stern, but the Master is undoing the buttons of his velvet coat and the ruffled shirt beneath. "Would you force me to stay if I tried to leave now?"

"Would you like to find out?" The Master replies with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He glances aside and following his line of sight, the Doctor sees his cloak, draped over an armchair, out of reach whereas the Master probably has a weapon close at hand.

"It won't happen this way," the Doctor warns him.

The Master advances a step, smiling. "What shall it be, then, Doctor? Surely you won't make it that easy? No, it never is easy with you. A battle of wills, perhaps, a contest of the minds –"

The assault is sudden and strong, in one second he is staring at the Master's eyes, in the next he's nearly blinded by his mind, strong and far more practiced in violent contact. Blinking, the Doctor lifts a hand, but it is quite ineffectual. "Master – "

The Master undresses him, displaying his total control over their contact by showing that he doesn't even need his full concentration to invade the Doctor's mind. "Leave, Doctor," he whispers. "Leave if you want to. If you can."

He can, but he doesn't truly want to. He only wants to tell the Master to cease this unnecessary charade and for once, behave like someone halfway sane, but instead he follows the next order and finds himself on the neatly made bed, the Master's hands roaming over his skin, mapping the new body. The Doctor feels very far away for a few minutes, staring ahead and not seeing anything but the past. The Time Lords forced him to regenerate, they forced him into this body, and then they crippled his mind and dropped him here on Earth.

The Master's touch grows suddenly ungentle, almost bruising as he grips the Doctor's face and stares down at him, launching another blunt and painful push into his mind. "Pay attention, will you?" This can be pleasant to their species, an unsurpassable experience of bliss, but neither of them would allow that, and it is questionable if they're capable of it. The Doctor feels sweat break out on his face, and he grows dizzy before he starts to fight it with a groan. He grips the Master's wrists, their legs brush against each other, and finally, he manages to drive back the Master, who seals the attack with a forceful kiss, laughing when they part. "Oh, yes, continue, dear Doctor," he encourages. "I am quite enjoying you tonight."

The Doctor stares up at him, panting a little, both from pain and exertion. The pain fades quickly into a sort of arousal. "I have the feeling you're not going to go through with this."

The Master frowns. He sometimes can be rather dense and awfully touchy, but after a second, his face smoothes with understanding. The Doctor props himself up on his elbows and smiles his most obnoxious smile, the one he often uses to frustrate the Brigadier. The Master smiles a sly one in return.

"Doctor, I do get the impression that you're trying to provoke me."

"I might be," he agrees amiably.

"Then I shall do you the favour and play along."

This time the Master's mind doesn't bludgeon but lashes at him like a whip, the raw concentrated force of will and intelligence. If he were standing, he'd fall to his knees, like this there's blackness, and when he recovers, every nerve in his body is on fire, wave after wave, and the Master is like a furnace this close, burning, flickering, alive. The Doctor lets him in, and only then starts to fight back, brushing and tangling, dancing like serpents with full body contact. Only faintly is he aware of what happens on the outside of their minds, a bit surprised but not unwilling when he finds that the Master is preparing to breach him in more way than one.

It's to his advantage, but only until the first time the Master sinks into him, then they're both distracted. He can taste the Master's greedy desire, can see through his eyes as he stares at the Doctor, relishing in the sight of him undone and unresisting. The Doctor lets himself be carried along until he gets a glimpse of what's beneath lust and triumph, a sliver of need that perfectly mirrors his own. The Master bristles, and the Doctor is thrown out of his mind quite abruptly, their connection severed, only the physical one remaining.

They both ignore completely what just happened. It'd be too much of a mess to mention it, far too much trouble.

"Human vices," the Doctor says breathlessly, shifting to ease their angle, oh, this is unexpectedly good, very good, brilliant human idea, "funny how they catch on, isn't it?"

The Master's eyes travel down, then up the Doctor's body. "Look at you," he growls. "Do you hate them for doing this to you?"

Them? Ah, yes, them. Funny, the Doctor almost forgot. He shakes his head silently. The Master stills, visibly surprised. He wasn't gentle before, but when he moves again, each thrust is slow and deep, careful. "I know what it is like to be alone, Doctor," he murmurs into his ear. "We're both outcasts. Come with me. Leave Earth and come with me."

"No," the Doctor says, regretting that he has to.

"Why?" The Master demands, angry and uncomprehending and just a bit pleading. "They'll never forgive you unless they have to. Do you really wish to wait for something that might never happen? You and I – "

"I will wait," he says.

Strangely, his fear lifts in that moment. He hasn't even known it was there, but resisting the Master's temptation also frees him of the lingering fear that he might not ever be pardoned by the Time Lords. It carries over into his body, into his heart. He feels a wave of gratefulness, of affection for his old friend and reaches completion.

"Forever?" the Master asks as he shudders and stills, his forehead resting against the Doctor's collarbone.

The Doctor sighs. He can feel fear and frustration, and the old bitterness returning. He felt hopelessly bleak this morning, and the Master must have felt an unusual spark of hope and that brought them together for a little while. Now the Doctor's hope has returned, and by necessity, crushed the Master's own.

The Master slips away from him, sitting up. They're both weary and it is late, but none of them will find sleep here, or rest for a long time to come.

"One day – " the Master starts threateningly, but the Doctor touches his shoulder and silences him.

"Don't. I appreciated your company very much today."

A huffing, contemptuous noise is all he gets as the Master turns away and gets up. He dresses, while the Doctor remains on the bed, propped up on a pillow, his head resting against the headboard. Rain whispers against the window-pane. The drops glitter in the street lights as they run down the glass.

"You are a fool, Doctor," the Master proclaims haughtily before he leaves. Watching his back retreat to the door, the Doctor smiles fondly. Yes, they're both terrible fools.

"Master," he calls after him, knowing the power in a name. The Master stills and glances back over his shoulder. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

Some of the anger fades from the Master's stance. He gives the Doctor a nod. "So am I," he admits. "Perhaps then you shall see reason."

The Doctor smiles, sadly, lowering his glance. "Perhaps."

But it's the Master, and he doesn't really know a 'no' when he hears it. His smile is smug, his eyes bright. He will try again, he always will. The Doctor counts on it.

"Until we meet again."


End file.
